


Migraine

by viridescentdin (writtenintostars)



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: 18+, 18+ ONLY, Blow Jobs, Din X Reader - Freeform, F/M, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Reader Insert, Smut, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, touch-starved mando
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 10:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30071025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writtenintostars/pseuds/viridescentdin
Summary: You can help Mando anywhere, in any way possible....Anywhere except under the helmet, that is.*Updates every other Monday*
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, Mando/reader, Mando/you, The Mandalorian/Reader, The Mandalorian/You, din/reader
Comments: 11
Kudos: 82





	Migraine

It was never easy when the Mandalorian had rough days. 

Part of that was because it was never just one day. This job was his life, and it wasn’t an easy one. Sure, maybe you ( _ he _ ) would get days, even weeks on end when the quarries went willingly. But that didn’t offset all the years of brawls and hardship. It couldn’t. And for Mando, nothing ever seemed to be balanced. He didn’t have a simple quarry one time and a harder one the other. It was all or nothing, totally and completely easy or… arduous. Strenuous. The bounty hunter just couldn’t seem to catch a break. 

So you do what you can to make it better. 

You keep the Crest clean, and organized. You care for the wrinkly green baby, because that was what you were here for anyway. You helped get various creatures in the carbonite chamber when Mando couldn’t, and sprayed bacta on his wounds when it was necessary. 

You talked to Mando, too. Usually late and while in hyperspace. He’d sit on the pilot’s chair, his cold and dark visor trained on you. You would update him on what the Child had done that day, or what you thought about the various planets the Mandalorian whisked you away to. 

Your favorite thing, though, was when you asked about what he had done. Mando didn’t always want to talk about it - it was probably boring for him, now that you thought about it. He’d been a bounty hunter since long before he met you. Maybe even since long before you were born.

But on good nights, when the Child is asleep and the hull is silent, Mando would tell you. You always listened intently, watched with wide eyes. You leaned in, careful not to touch, but desperately wanting to. 

Of course, you’ve touched Mando before. But not… really. 

It’s always been quick, and frenzied. You only touch Mando when he’s wounded, and you have to frantically strip him of his Beskar. Pull up his shirt, find the wound that’s making him throb. Cauterize it. Make sure it's clean.

You’ve only seen glimpses of Mando’s skin. Strips of his stomach, lines of his ribs or spine. Gorgeous tan skin, decorated with scars. 

He was warm, and soft under the armor. You don’t think many people know that. 

But then, you barely do. These occurrences weren’t frequent. 

Those nights, you would stay up watching the Mandalorian, making sure he was alright. It was easy to hear breathing irregularities through the voice modulator. You always listened for them when Mando came back to you hurt.

You never heard anything concerning. And somehow, the next morning, Mando always knew you had stayed awake. He would tilt his head disapprovingly at you, insist you eat something and go sleep. He wouldn’t be satisfied until you listened. 

So. Yeah.

The days the quarries put up a real fight was rough. The days Mando returned to the Crest exhausted and aching were harder. 

But it was when he got migraines, these soul-splitting, devastating headaches, that was the worst.

Because you can help Mando anywhere, in any way possible.

Anywhere except under the helmet, that is. 

* * *

Mando doesn’t say anything, but you can tell something isn’t right. His shoulders are slumped, held low as if they’re feeling the weight of the beskar for the first time. His footsteps are heavy, and he stumbles towards the cot that serves as a bed. He’s working himself out of his armor, letting it drop to the floor. He flinches every time the noise echoes off the walls. 

“Hey,” you approach him, worry starting to ebb at your core. You’ve never seen him like this, treating his Beskar so… unceremoniously. “What’s going on?”

The Mandalorian stalls, tilting his head up at you. You’re pretty sure, like 95%, that his eyes are fixed on yours. The thought makes your throat go dry. 

“Nothing,” he says, voice sounding thicker than usual through the modulator. “Headache. Is the kid asleep?”

He’s in his pram, tucked away safely in the cockpit. “Yes,” you tell Mando. He nods in response. You don’t move.

“Can I… help?” You ask. Mando holds his head in his hands. Maker, this must be bad. You’ve never seen him like this. You get the feeling you should leave, join the baby and just let Mando deal with this on his own. 

But he handled everything on his own. Wasn’t that part of the reason you were here? Because Mando realized he just… couldn’t?

Of course, that was only in regards to the baby. But you could help with this, too. You could hold him, whisper reassurances. You thought about doing that every night if you were honest. 

You were good for a lot of things. The Mandalorian might not know that yet.

“Turn off the lights.” He says, and you get up and do. You type in the coordinates for the next planet first, sending the Crest into hyperspace. Then you find your way back to the cot, sitting down next to Mando.

You aren’t sure what you expected. The Mandalorian doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t acknowledge you’re there. The only thing that changes is that you’re pretty sure his breathing evens out when you return. Just a bit. 

“Do you want me to talk to you?” You ask, biting your lip. “I know- I know distractions can help.”

“No,” he bites out. Even in the dark, you tilt away. “No,” Mando repeats, his voice softer. “The… noise, it makes it worse. I… like talking to you. Just not now.”

You let out a quiet breath of relief. 

“Okay,” you nod. 

“You can. Stay.” He shifts uncomfortably. Your heart skips a beat.

He wants you here.

“Of course,” you tell him. 

You’re quiet for a few minutes, but you don’t like this feeling. Helpless. You want to be  _ doing _ something for him. 

“I can r-rub your neck. If you want.” You stutter, unsure of what to say or how to say it. “When I was a kid my mom would always do that. Direct feeling somewhere else.” Your face heats up at what you’re offering.

“I can’t,” Mando is in pain, you can tell, and it’s probably the hardest thing you’ve ever had to sit through. That was selfish, you knew, he was the one suffering right now. But you didn’t want to see him this way. The Mandalorian, this fearless warrior who protected you and the child with his life… he didn’t deserve this. “Too much. I don’t want to feel anything else.”

It makes sense, that’s what you keep telling yourself. 

You notice your knee is pressed against Mando’s. 

It… emboldens you. Gives you one more idea, but it’s a gutsy one. You probably shouldn’t risk it. 

But then, all your life was at this point was a series of risks. You lived with a Mandalorian.

“You could… Touch me.” You whisper in the darkness. Even though you can’t see him, you know Mando has gone very, very still. “And just focus on your hand. You won’t feel anything, anywhere else, but you’ll be…” you trail off before saying the word distracted. You don’t know if you should give yourself that much credit. 

Carefully, you find the Mandalorian’s hand. You bring it to your cheek, rubbing your skin against it. The leather glove feels strange against your face, but you don’t mind. The hand it covers is strong, and it doesn’t protest when you start guiding it down. The Mandalorian’s hand traces the curve of your neck, your collarbones. You feel your breathing become labored at the simple exchange, wondering how something so inconsequential could be beginning to feel so good.

“Take the glove off,” Mando says suddenly, just when you’re letting his hand brush over the curve of your breast. You swallow, obliging. You toss the glove to the floor, quickly returning Mando’s hand to your chest and letting him feel. He cups your breast experimentally, holding the weight of it before he squeezes. 

You can’t help it, you moan, instantly hating yourself because you know what Mando needs is silence right now. But you couldn’t hold it back, his sudden interest in your body making you heavy with want. You wonder what his hand would feel like on your skin, and the curiosity is overwhelming. You lean away, quickly pulling your shirt over your head.

“Where-?”

“I’m coming back,” you assure Din, catching his hand again. You press a kiss to his palm, and-

Maker, he’s perfect. His hand is calloused, worn from years of use. You wonder about the last time Mando was held, if ever. 

The thought gives you the courage you need to keep going, and you trail your lips up Mando’s palm until they reach the pads of his fingers. You kiss each one, tongue flicking out to taste his skin, and then you’re taking his digits in your mouth.

You let your tongue explore his fingers, each knuckle and nook and cranny you can find. Mando lets out a groan, somewhere between pleasure and pain, and leans towards you. You accept some of his weight, letting his shoulder rest against yours. 

You draw away with a  _ pop! _ , and now that his fingers are slick, you let him grab your breast again. It’s different without the glove, just like you thought it would be, and Mando’s touch leaves your skin searing. He plays with you for a minute, holding and squeezing as your breaths become shorter and shorter.

He presses a thumb over your nipple, swirling it in a circle. You keen instantly, a mewl tumbling from your parted lips. You hear Mando curse, and he pulls on your nipple, seemingly reveling in the cry it elicits from you.

Then suddenly, he’s gone. 

“Fuck, I- I can’t.” Mando says. You blink. “Too loud, I can’t-”

“I’ll be quiet,” you interrupt him. “I’ll be quiet, I promise, I’ll-”

“Quit it. Now.” The Mandalorian moves his large hand to the middle of your chest, over your sternum. You freeze. “I don’t… want you to be. The sounds. I like them.”

Oh.

You don’t really know what to say. 

The Mandalorian begins to take his own shirt off, throwing it over your shoulder and onto the floor. He lays down on the cot, and next thing you know, he’s pulling you down with him and tugging you into his chest.

And oh, Maker, is he warm.

Mando’s strong chest rises and falls evenly against your back, meeting the skin there and sending shivers down your spine. He wraps an arm around your middle, resting his hand over your left breast. Stars, you hope he can’t tell how hard your heart is beating. He moves his thumb and down, lulling you into warmth and security. 

You intertwine your fingers with the Mandalorian’s, and angle your head so you can press a quick kiss to his forearm. He shivers behind you, and scoots closer. 

Was this really happening?

“Promise me,” he murmurs, or speaks with the closest thing to that with the helmet on. “Promise me we can do this tomorrow.”

Tomorrow…

You clutch Din’s arm. 

“Promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have an awesome beta, @ dilfism, and y'all should go check them out. They're pretty cool :)
> 
> This is my first Din/reader multichapter and my second fic for him, so please let me know what you think! Comments + kudos mean the world to me. I'll also say that I have not seen s2 yet, so all characterization is based off s1.
> 
> Feel free to come hang out w me on tumblr @ viridescent-din.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I'll see y'all in a few weeks.


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